Despicable
by Collie Parkillo
Summary: "God, I hate you." "Yeah? I hate me too." Barkovitch/McVries.


**disclaimer: the long walk does not belong to me**

* * *

"God, I hate you."

Barkovitch feels dirty. Filthy, in fact. It's starting to get dark out, the last twinges of sunlight fading into the sunset, and there's no one there except him and fucking Scarface. They're standing in practically the middle of nowhere, some sort of dumbass wheat field. His back's against the ground and somehow with every kiss Scarface plants on his skin, he can feel more hate.

"Yeah? I hate me too." Barkovitch's voice is hoarse and ragged and McVries bites down on his collarbone, causing him to gasp slightly.

"Huh. Then why aren't you trying any harder?"

"How do you mean?"

McVries pauses. "Why aren't you doing anything about it?"

Barkovitch laughs. It's an empty, dark, unhappy sound. Like the laughtrack of some teeny bopper television show gone wrong. "You think I'm not fuckin' doing anything about it? God, everyday of my fucking life..."

"You can't expect me to know every detail of your life. I just fuck you every once in awhile." McVries chuckles. It's not dark, like Barkovitch's laugh, but it has just enough of the sardonic, tongue-in-cheek aspect to terrify Barkovitch. It's the chuckle of a murderer whose victim's last words were ironic to the situation.

Barkovitch lets out a whine as McVries kisses his neck again. They're angry kisses, snapping at the skin and leaving dark blemishes. "But Christ, do I do things about it. Every fucking day, Scarface."

McVries grimaces. "Don't call me that. Reminds me too much why I have it."

"If you hate it, you know that I'll call you it even more." Barkovitch's face twists into a grin. "You never did tell me why you have the fucking thing, anyways."

"I'm not here to tell you fucking stories, killer."

The dark boy winces. That name sends the pain of memories shooting through his brain, a high-school fight gone wrong and two years in juvie. "Don't call me that, shithead," is the best defense he can come up with.

"You're my killer and I'm your scarface." McVries laughs. "God, we're fucked up, aren't we. We're really, really fucked up."

"What sort of horrid crime did you commit to get that scar? Does it have to do with that stupid little boy you're always lookin' at like he's the best thing since shaving cream?"

"Shut the fuck up." McVries enforces this by biting down on Barkovitch's lower lip, causing him to moan slightly. "Ray's got nothing to do with any of this." There's a pain in his voice that Barkovitch doesn't recognize, and he smirks as he realizes that he's hit a nerve.

"Huh? Did you give yourself that scar, pining after him 'cause of that little Polish girl he's draggin' around? Perfect couple, really. Little mister and missus normal."

"Shut the fuck up." McVries is growling now, and he seems to be trying to press Barkovitch into the ground. "Ray's got nothing to do with this. Ray doesn't mean a thing to me. It was a girl, killer. A girl gave me the fucking scar because we broke up and she didn't like it. Alright?"

Barkovitch laughs again, although McVries has pinned his arms against the ground and it's starting to hurt. "We're the perfect pair, Scarface. You're always whinin' about love and shit, and I don't ever feel a fucking thing for anybody."

"Love is a fucking fake. It's like, it's made out to be some sort of great, ultimate thing that we should all strive to get and then once you think you've got it, it's a fake. See, that's the thing. You only think you're in love. But love doesn't exist. Got buried under all that bullshit about true love prevailing."

"You'd know."

"Fuck off."

"Aw, c'mon, Scarface. You and I are friends, aren't we?" His voice is teasingly nice. McVries narrows his eyes and hits Barkovitch. It's awkward, since they're lying down, but it hurts like fuck and he feels a bit of blood trickle from his nose.

"Hate. That's what you and I've got. Hate. Lots and lots of hate. Hate's great, you know. A lot more real than love, if you think about it."

McVries kisses Barkovitch again, a bit of sour blood mixing between their mouths. "Hate. Yeah, I'm with you there. Hate's real nice. When you hate somebody, it stays with them all their goddamn life. Keeps them away. Love always fades." McVries looks down at Barkovitch. He's a messed up kid, from a broken and poor family. Brother's in jail, the kid killed somebody in a fight. And here he is talking about having trouble with love, nearly blinking tears out of his eyes. McVries has to laugh. "What's so fucking funny?!"

"Nobody loves you, killer."

"I know that."

"Not even your mother, I guess. Your daddy walked out, didn't he? Bet your mom's not too proud of you."

"Shut the fuck up and kiss me, Scarface."

"Beg for it."

"Please kiss me, Peter McVries." Barkovitch makes an overexaggerated polite expression, and McVries smirks again.

"Less talking, then, killer."

He leans back down and this kiss is needier than the last few. Like somehow McVries is missing something and the only way he can express it is by biting down on Barkovitch's mouth and intertwining their tongues.

McVries whispers into the kiss. "I want to fucking tear you apart, Barkovitch."  
"Same to you," Barkovitch pants out.

Scarface is a messed up guy, Barkovitch thinks. He's nursing a wound because fucking Ray Garraty doesn't love him and he thinks nobody ever will. We're a good pair, nobody's ever going to love us so we'd might as well just hate each other.


End file.
